Playing Mozart
by Aloof-Star24
Summary: Mr. Austria is a very strict man. But all his flaws and meanness go away when he sets his fingers on the piano. I want to play like him. I really do. But these cursed, stubby fingers of mine! How will I ever play that first note? That first note of Mozart?


**Summary: Mr. Austria is a very strict man. But all his flaws and meanness go away when he sets his fingers on the piano. I want to play like him. I really do. But these cursed, stubby fingers of mine! How will I ever play that first note? That first note of Mozart?**

**Warnings: Mostly fluff. Chibitalia 1st person POV, so kiddie language in use.**

**Hetalia belongs to Hidekaz Himaruya.**

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..| Playing Mozart | ..

Mr. Austria is a very strict man. From the day he took me into his house, he has always been the strictest person I know! He assigns me all these chores and makes me sweep the floors of his big house every five minutes. It's so tiring! But, of course, I have no say in it. I just do what I am told. I mean, I don't want to get hurt, right? No, I definitely do not want to be stepped on again. My back still hurts from last time.

Let me tell you how mean he really is. There is never pasta for breakfast, or lunch, or dinner. "It simply isn't allowed!" he says. Though, there was this one time when Miss Hungary managed to convince Austria to treat me to pasta for my birthday. I remember savoring every bite and slurp. But other than that, whenever I ask if there will be pasta for supper, I am sure to be tied to a wooden post. Having no pasta is punishment enough! Mr. Austria even takes the time to hang a "DO NOT FEED PASTA" sign onto my dress whenever I do something he disapproves of. It makes me cry sometimes, but that's nothing new.

Yes, Mr. Austria is a very strict man. But all of his flaws and cruelty go away once I hear the first note. That first, blissful note that floats around the music room like a little bubble. I'm always afraid to move from my spot in the doorway when I listen in. One slight movement and that delicate bubble may pop. I never want it to burst and disappear. No, that would be sad. I would only end up in tears again.

"Well, don't just stand there and stare, Italy. Have a seat in that chair," Mr. Austria always tells me when he catches me listening. This is the only time I'm glad to follow his orders, so I quietly shuffle my feet and find myself plopped down in a chair, silent as a mouse. Mr. Austria then swivels in his bench and turns his attention back to the piano. His long, thin fingers- perfect for playing piano- find themselves on a set of ivory-ebony keys. And the bliss starts again.

Mr. Austria has always been a serious man in my eyes, but when he makes such pretty sounds like this on his beloved piano, I feel like frolicking through a meadow full of buttery yellow daisies and royal purple lavenders. Well, maybe that's a bit much, but I like to imagine such things. I close my eyes and listen. Some days it's a pleasant Bach. A nice Prelude full of scales legato notes. On other days, when he's frustrated, he'll play Chopin. A sad Nocturne is sure to relieve his feelings. And on the rare days when he's exceptionally angry, he'll play a powerful Beethoven. On those days, the piano sounds like a whole orchestra! But what I really like the most is Mozart. In fact, I like his music the most! It makes me smile everytime I hear him. It's so cute and simple. I want to play his music. I _really_ want to play some Mozart.

"Mr. Austria, could I maybe learn that?" I say one day while listening to a happy Minuet, composed by none other than Mr. Mozart. Mr. Austria continues to play as if he didn't hear me. _Did_ he hear me? The last chord is played ever-so-delicately and echoes throughout the room. I don't want to repeat what I've asked. It would ruin the silence. So I kind of just look around as if I hadn't asked it at all.

"You want to learn?" Mr. Austria asks after a while, pivoting in his bench to face me. It's a gentle voice, but I think there's a hint of disbelief. I nod vigorously and almost get dizzy bobbing my head up and down. Before I know it, I'm being picked up and set down onto the piano bench. It still feels warm from Austria's hours of playing. I look up at him with wide eyes and I can't believe he's actually teaching me. He's not ordering me to sweep the floors or banning me from pasta. He looks like a different person, softer around the edges. The image of a little fluff-filled Austria doll comes up in my mind and I silently giggle.

"The first note is middle C," Mr. Austria says. He waits as if I'm supposed to do something. The problem is, I don't know what to do, and soon it feels really awkward. How is little old me supposed to know what a "middle C" is?

"Umm..." I manage to hum out. Mr. Austria looks like he's going to sigh, impatient and ready to give up on me. Instead, he lifts my index finger and places it on a white key, pressing down so that the note is played.

"Ding..." it sings. My eyes brighten at this new discovery. It's such a pretty sound. How wonderful a single note can sound! This "Middle C" is the first note I've ever played. It is the first note of the song.

oooooooooooo

I'm crying right now. I think I'm in my room, but my eyes are blurred by too many tears to tell. I can't do anything. _Anything_. Not a single thing! I'm horrible at everything I do except making pasta and cleaning the floors, and sometimes I can't even do _that_ right! I'm terrible. And Austria is mean. He's _so mean_. He doesn't need to yell. He doesn't need to yell _all the time_. And where's Miss Hungary? Where is she? I need her to make me happy again. I'm miserable, and... and... Where is she?

I couldn't do it. I couldn't play that pretty song. Music hates me. Mozart would hate me if he were here. Austria says I don't have the fingers for it. I don't have the patience to sit down and study the music. When I lift my hands and stare at them, I realize Mr. Austria is right. I have tiny hands with short stubby fingers, as if they were made of meat patties! Mr. Austria has large hands with lithe, elegant fingers, as if they were made by angels. Why can't I have _his_ fingers? Why can't I play pretty Mozart like him? I'm crying still. I really wanted to play that Minuet!

Still crying now, but this time I'm growing angry. Why was Austria so mean? That big meanie! I'm just slow. Doesn't he know that yet? It takes me a while to learn certain things. He's so mean. So mean! I hate him...

... No. I can't bring myself to hate Mr. Austria. He at least _tried_ to teach me, _si_? Big Brother France says it's not good to hate, anyway. It's better to love everyone. "Hate" is such a strong word.

I have to do something. Something to make Mr. Austria proud of me. Something to make me feel good about myself, too. Something to prove everybody that I can _do something_. Something good and wonderful and amazing! I'm not sure _what_ to do, but it's got to be something. So I wipe all my messy tears away and dash for Mr. Austria's music room.

oooooooooooo

The instrument is in my hands. My hands aren't _on_ the instrument. The instrument is _in_ my hands. It makes me feel like I can control it. What a weird feeling. I'm not used to being in control. Mr. Austria and Miss Hungary are sitting on the sofa in front of me, waiting. I'm standing with my little wooden instrument on my shoulder, tucked under my chin. A sheet of music lays snugly on the stand in front of me. In my right hand is a bow of horsehair that balances in my fingers. My left hand is resting on an ebony-colored fingerboard. I set the bow on the coiled strings.

And I play music.

Little fluttering butterflies invade the pits of my small stomach. Is it because I'm nervous? No, I don't think so. I think it's because I'm really happy.

My eyes scan across the music as I carefully feel my way through on the fingerboard, making sure I hit every note correctly. Not too sharp, not too flat. And don't cross strings! I can't hit the D string while I'm playing on the E string or else it will sound scratchy. Ah, and I need to keep the tempo just right. Here comes a trill! Oh, dynamics! Can't forget the dynamics! A ritardando here, a crescendo there, aaaand... the finishing chord! I pull my bow off the string to signal a ringing ending. Silence follows. I kind of just stand there, waiting. Am I expecting something? A boo? A bravo? I can't look at the other two countries, especially Mr. Austria. Nothing is happening and the quiet scares me. No one is saying anything. Did I do something wrong? I feel like I'm about to cry again.

A clap. Wait... a clap? I finally bring my arms down and look over at my audience of two. They're clapping. Mr. Austria and Ms. Hungary are _clapping_!

"Good job, Italy. Your violin=playing was quite enjoyable," Mr. Austria compliments. He's smiling a small smile that makes me shine as bright as the stars.

"Yes, that was wonderful! It was so beautiful!" Miss Hungary exclaims. She runs up to me and gives me a hug while my violin and bow are still in my hands. I blush, embarrassed but content. Mr. Austria follows up behind Miss Hungary and gives me my awaited nod of approval. At that moment, I realize that's all I've ever wanted. I think I've done the right thing for once.

"Kudos to you. You play a very nice Mozart," he says simply. After hearing those words, I don't think I've ever smiled wider.


End file.
